EMDR session number 5 started like any other. I arrived a half hour early and sat in my car outside ET’s house. I decided this was a good time to try and meditate. I can’t seem to force myself to sit and meditate at will so the timing was mine. Close my eyes. Concentrate on the breath. Inhale God, Exhale Fear. I wonder what we’ll talk about today. I bet she wonders, too. I can feel a heat sensation rising in my chest. Damn. I’m struggling. Inside body, outside body. Wax on. Wax off.

At 11:56am I walk up to the Hollywood tree house. To my right, I see a blur of white. I turn my head and am astonished to see the HOLLYWOOD sign in the hill. Somehow I have driven here on 4 other occasions, and I have never noticed it. Or have I?

I get comfy on the purple couch and ET looks at me with this bright expectant smile. As if to say “Wellllllllllllllll, How Are WE Doing??” She’d never say it like that. But that is what I imagine. She has a purple flower in her curly black hair and I notice she is once again dressed in shades of purple and blue. She’s holding The List of traumas I made for her last week, and I am getting antsy. I’ve been feeling a little out of body lately, so I am not certain what I felt like dealing with this time. Ha. As if it’s ever a choice. I thought perhaps I could get off scott free, maybe talk about my back and why I am still in so much pain after the fusion surgeries. Or, maybe we could talk about the weather. That would be good. Spring starts tomorrow after all. Look over here, look over here. Don’t look over there. The little dancing cockroach is waving his tiny arms, with top hat and cane in hand doing the Mr. Peanut Dance. Over here, over here.

She first gives me the names of 2 books I am to purchase and read. One, called “The Body Bears The Burden” Trauma Dissociation and Disease. by Robert Scaer, M.D. The second is “Crash Course: A Self-Healing Guide to Auto Accident Trauma and Recovery” by Laurence Heller. I write the book names down and feel my brain twitching. You know you’re going to have to read these, right? Not only to get through your own shit, but to help people in the future? This is your job. Fuck me. Why am I doing this again? For the others. For the others.

Then she hands me an article, “The Rape of Mr. Smith.” We read it out loud and I ask if I can keep my copy. I have adjusted in the purple couch about 20 times by now. I can’t get comfortable. Fuuuuuuuuuuck.

We put the EMDR headphones on and I hold the vibrators. I no longer use the lights, as we think that may be the cause of post EMDR headaches. I close my eyes. And it takes only nano seconds for my face to scrunch up into a wadded piece of paper. I am turning in on myself. Like an invisible protective barrier is incubating me. Here we go. Look over here. Look over here. Hello my baby, Hello my honey, Hello my ragtime gaaaaaaaaalllllll….dance, dance. Hat trick. Twirl. Over here.

I start by telling her that both she and my regular therapist have made several comments about how “amazingly in tune I am with my body and my emotions.” I felt it was important to let them know this was not normal for me. If you asked me 3 years ago how something made me feel, I would have raised my upper lip at you, furrowed my brow sarcastically and said, “Feel?” Offended at the notion.

It was the bus accident and the subsequent physical injuries that brought me here. Oddly enough, physical pain has the unshakable ability to bring you into the present moment. Present moment awareness. EWWWW. I never wanted any present, past or future moment awareness. I wanted numb. I wanted buffer. I wanted cotton shoved in between my heart, ears, mind and soul…and the world out there. In here. The secret world in here.

With my eyes closed, I sit quietly for a moment. Or so I thought. I didn’t realize she was watching this happen and it took a few minutes for me to feel it, but I was clenching my jaw, tapping my left foot vigorously and if the hand vibrators had life they no longer did because I was squeezing it out of them. She asks me simply, “What are you aware of now?” I say, “I’m aware of why I was diagnosed with TMJ.” She laughs. I laugh. Then she says, “You know, grinding the jaw is usually a sign that we want to say something that we’re not allowing ourselves to say.” Uuuuuuuggghhhhhhh. Where’s Mr. Peanut when I need him. I need a diversion.

“I guess I am here to talk more about The Doctor.” Mind you, I have not talked with her about The Doctor yet. I’m confused. I think I have only written a little about it here. It took me a year and a half to mention it to my regular therapist. TheRapist. God, I’m crazy. I am pretty sure I have only talked to her about it. I was struck speechless when after telling Regular Therapist the story, she asked, “May I ask you a question? Was that man’s name Dr. X?” I couldn’t tell if I was scared or relieved. She knew him. She had heard of him.

Holy shit. It’s real. I had convinced myself over the years that none of this was real. That I made it all up. That I deserved it. That I brought it on. I wore the wrong clothes. I asked for it. It’s all jumbled. Why now? Aren’t I over this yet? God. I can’t believe this is my life. But I let it come out the way it wants to. ET tells me this is how the brain works. Connecting the dots. I’m seeing spots. Hello my baby…

I had just kicked my lying, cheating psychotic boyfriend out of the apartment. I needed to find a second job, quick, if I was going to stay in LA. I worked full-time for the The Doctor, but he only paid me $10 an hour. There was no way I could make my rent. I can not move home. That is not home to me. I can not fail. There was a piece of me that lit up, the moment I found out The Actor was a pathological liar. I had never felt such vindicated rage before. I felt like She-Ra. My ET tells me to stop, and asks me where I feel that in my body. The She-Ra effect. “I feel it in my chest.” I tell her. “I feel it in my face, as it lifts up to look evil in the eyes.” When she sees my body move as I talk, she asks me to stop, explain what I am feeling, and to re-enact it. To exaggerate it. Slowly and deliberately. So I puff my chest forward and lift my chin to the moon. Move over Mr. Peanut, I’m the one dancing now. I’m proud.

Proud? Of what? I was young, I needed the money. God I’m sick. You’re sitting here talking about this shit….again? Haven’t you talked about it enough? But no, I don’t think I have. Have I? Not with other humans anyway. I told you, you were crazy. Isn’t it true that if you think you are crazy, you’re not? Don’t be silly. This is your job. This is your school. Learn how to walk through this. Right here. Right now. Allow it in. Allow it out. Wow, I can’t believe you are here. You’re here. Do you hear me? I am so proud of you.

I take some deeeeeeeeeep breaths and rearrange my body on the purple couch. I sit cross legged, with a fluffy purple pillow behind my back. Inhale God. Exhale Fear. Okay, now I’m ready. I relax the death grip on the vibrators. Try to unclench my jaw. And feel the sweat flood my armpits. The same sweat that is rushing to my armpits as I type this now. Expression. The body bears the burden. Oh well. No one said this would be pretty.

Have been feeling a bit “numb” for the past couple of days. My EMDR therapist says I am in and out a dissociative state. Blah! Yesterday was another surprising Microscopic Monday on the purple couch. I swear, I went in there thinking I was wearing waterproof mascara in vain. That it wouldn’t be necessary. Yet once again I found myself free associating with whatever we were talking about. She remarks once again that it’s a miracle I’m sitting on her couch. She’s holding The List in her hands, shaking her head. Saying “You are just remarkable.”I imagine myself with black marker scribbles on my face, remarkable.

Hmmmm. I don’t know what to say about things like that. I suppose I’m in denial. Everybody has secrets. We all have a story that would make you cry. Just because someone has been through 3 things and another 30 things doesn’t make their pain any more or less. But I do realize I may have a lot of sludge to wade through. Anyway, I thought we might talk about something pleasant, like how do I get rid of this pain in my body, or how can I unblock myself creatively. Yet, she handed me something called “The Rape of Mr. Smith.” And wouldn’t you know, I wound up going into That Night on Sunset Blvd. The night I gave the world of prostitution another last chance. Umm, Oh. I’d like to mean LAST chance. But before the internet there were newspapers and if placing ads for “benefactors” in the local meet up section counts, well, that went on for a while. What can I say. I gave myself lots of rope with which to hang myself. Plenty of reasons not to get to this very moment where I am typing this. Remarkable.

But the Sunset strip story is one I’ve shrugged my shoulders at so many times thinking “Eh, I’m over it. Whatever.” But then try to sit yourself down, with these tones playing in your ears and buzzers in your hands, eyes closed….and go back there. Not only to re-imagine the scene, but to recreate it. Re-frame it. I can still see the look of shock on ET’s face as I started to tell the story. (Hadn’t she studied The List before the appointment?) It was like, lady, you don’t even know the half of it. I am one of the lucky ones. I ran and I ran and I ran fast. And then I hid. And it would be years later I’d be faced with the even uglier underground world of rich people, organized crime and abuse. Sigh. I’ll write about it tomorrow. Wednesday Wallows. No wallows actually. Just chronicles. I suppose it’s good for me to just get it out once and for all.

With that, I leave you with “The Rape of Mr. Smith.” From Readings for Diversity and Social Justice – Anonymous

The law discriminates against rape victims in a manner which would not be tolerated by victims of any other crime. In the following example, a holdup victim is asked questions similar in form to those usually asked a victim of rape.

“Mr. Smith, you were held up at gunpoint on the corner of 16th and Locust?” “Yes.” “Did you struggle with the robber?” “No.” “Why not?” “He was armed.” “Then you made a conscious decision to comply with his demands rather than to resist?” “Yes.” “Did you scream? Cry out?” “No. I was afraid.” “I see. Have you ever been held up before?” “No.” “Have you ever given money away?” “Yes, of course–” “And did you do so willingly?” “What are you getting at?” “Well, let’s put it like this, Mr. Smith. You’ve given away money in the past–in fact, you have quite a reputation for philanthropy. How can we be sure that you weren’t contriving to have your money taken from you by force?” “Listen, if I wanted–” “Never mind. What time did this holdup take place, Mr. Smith?” “About 11 p.m.” “You were out on the streets at 11 p.m.? Doing what?” “Just walking.” “Just walking? You know it’s dangerous being out on the street that late at night. Weren’t you aware that you could have been held up?” “I hadn’t thought about it.” “What were you wearing at the time, Mr. Smith?” “Let’s see. A suit. Yes, a suit.” “An expensive suit?” “Well–yes.” “In other words, Mr. Smith, you were walking around the streets late at night in a suit that practically advertised the fact that you might be a good target for some easy money, isn’t that so? I mean, if we didn’t know better, Mr. Smith, we might even think you were asking for this to happen, mightn’t we?” “Look, can’t we talkin about the past history of the guy who did this to me?” “I’m afraid not, Mr. Smith. I don’t think you would want to violate his rights, now, would you?”

Naturally, the line of questioning, the innuendo, is ludicrous – as well as inadmissible as any sort of cross-examination – unless we are talking about parallel questions in a rape case. The time of night, the victim’s previous history of “giving away”that was taken by force, the clothing – all these are held against the victim. Society’s posture on rape, and the manifestation of that posture in the courts, help account for the fact that so few rapes are reported.

I can’t quite think clearly. And at the same time I don’t like to complain, yet again, about being in pain. So I often just hold it inside, stay silent, wait for it to pass, try to wear a smile.

Sigh, what a liar.

Let’s go back. Yesterday I went to a funeral for my second cousin. Ummm. Let’s just say the circumstances of his death were very suspicious. It appears there was a recipe for Perfect Storm Stew. Alcohol, weed, money, mental illness, a lonely elderly man and a fight of some sort? A mental breakdown? We’ll never know. The cops are “investigating.” But the bottom line is no one cares. He was already brain dead by the time the ambulance brought him to the vet hospital. I just saw him on Thanksgiving. Oddly, he was giving his prized possessions away. He gave me his hat from the Korean War. He wrote letters to my gramma, his aunt and closest friend, with lines like “The end is near.” We will never really know what happened.

My parents drove down so we could attend the funeral. The plots stretched miles wide, with many different entrances and chapels. We got there early so we went to Starbucks to kill time. I didn’t know my parents drank Starbucks. Funny. We got back and sat in the parking lot until 8:55. Remarking “Hmm….who’s that? Who are they?”

My mother insists on taking pictures of everything. So we took a picture outside the chapel then walked towards the door. I knew I had the scowl of hate on my face but I could not seem to remove it. I’m not a good sport about taking pictures at inappropriate times. Good thing I looked at the sign. We were at the wrong funeral. I couldn’t help but be giddy inside. This made the day so much more surreal. We began the mad dash to find the right funeral chapel and made it a couple of minutes late.

The ceremony was nice enough. It was an open casket. He had been dead for 9 days. It’s so fucking creepy how they pump you up with chemicals and put make up on you. He did not look like himself at all. I could not tell if I felt numb because that’s a common feeling about death. Or if I was just feeling he was finally at peace. Seeing his body meant nothing to me. I knew his spirit was flying around somewhere else by now, exploring other lands. My mom took flash pictures in the chapel throughout the entire funeral. Is that even allowed? I flinch every time I hear the camera click.

While the guys carried the casket out, I hear a woman saying “Look, a wolf.” I turn, and look up at the hill where she is pointing. That’s not a fucking wolf, I think. That’s a tree stump. The other women say “Where, where?” And she describes and points to the exact location of the stump. She says “He sees us, so he’s being completely still.” I am laughing inside.

We begin what my mom calls “the carpool” following the white hearse to the grave site. It’s raining a little. Cloudy and foggy. Kind of pretty and eery. There are two soldiers in uniform there to do the folding of the flag ceremony. I am enthralled. I don’t know how these men and women find the courage. The discipline. How do they do it? The young one folds the flag wrong, so has to slowly unfold it, and fold it again. After tucking the flag meticulously into it’s triangle shape, the older soldier nods his head at younger soldier, who slowly goes walking across the graves to a truck….waaaaaaaaay far away. We are told to salute, or place our right hands to our hearts, for the playing of “Taps.”

Ahhh, I think to myself. Here is the beautiful moment. Here’s where I’ll cry. I’ll feel something. Younger soldier is standing so far away we can hardly see him, but he pulls out a white trumpet and plays “Taps.” Right then a plane flies overhead. We can’t hear “Taps.” But my mom is crying anyway. Just when I think I’ll get to hear the end of the song, the plane passes. And a train blows. I am laughing again inside. My mom is sniffling.

The deacon says his final blessing over the casket. And the woman who saw the wolf stands up, goes next to the deacon, cups her hands around her mouth, and screams “LoLoLoLoLolololLoLoolOlOlllLolLoloLo.” Like an ancient battle cry. Birds flee from the trees. It was beautiful in a bizarre kind of way.

Later I hear wolf lady boasting she is in a tribe. I don’t know these people. I don’t think they knew my cousin. They knew his oldest son. But I do know that wasn’t a wolf. But I loved the battle cry. Whatever. I am so used to things like this.

I put a rose on my cousin’s casket, even though I know he wasn’t in there. “Thanks for the hat.” As we walk to our cars, we find out that younger soldier wasn’t playing the trumpet. It was just a recording playing through a speaker placed inside the fake trumpet. This again makes me laugh.

As we drove home, all I could think about was the pain I was in. So selfish. And the look of his made up dead face. So lucky. Gone now. An end to much pain in this world. I have to fight this, I’m thinking. Don’t give up. Your day will come and I want you to say you did the very best you could. Lived your fullest life. Healed and helped others to heal themselves. But I can’t think of anything except how much I want to die if this is all there is. I’m afraid. That I’ll need more spinal surgeries. That I’ll never be able to work again. I wonder who would show up at my funeral. I hope they dance. I hope they wear glitter. I hope they have words to say…like “She changed my life.” That is all I ever wanted. I suppose if I have to wince through it, just knowing I’ll have my day in the grass, the long eternal dirt nap, means I can’t stop fighting now. I have to press on like a soldier. Do what soldiers do. Keep fighting. So I don the goggles of many colors. Colored by shades of pain. Acceptance. It just is. Nothing to do about it…but hang on for the ride.

Like this:

It’s today, really, but it feels like you are still tomorrow, because it’s dark outside and I have yet to go to sleep. My parents will be here tomorrow. Yes, today. And I am too old to have my parents staying here with us, but I offered, because we have a funeral to go to on Friday morning. That is what family does. Today sucked but in a good way. Busy, slammed. I got bogged down in silly things. But I did sneak some time to start a painting for my grandmother. She calls me bluebird so I’ll paint her one. She’ll be 89 this month and I can send the painting home with my mom. This means I have to finish the painting tomorrow. Today. And my mom will probably want one too. I can’t paint on demand. How do artists do it?

Tomorrow, I used to worry about you and dread you. I regretted yesterdays and I held my breath until the todays were over. I wished my life away. Time stands still. And then it whips by like a deja vu. A memory I have had before. Who am I becoming? Now that I can’t hide anymore?

I’m on the brink of understanding that all things have led to this very moment. It all makes perfect sense. Shouldn’t “it” all just disappear then, and become a clean slate? Ha. Tomorrow, you cruel, cruel prankster. You like to watch us dance and keep us on our nervous little toes.

Tonight, I wish for peace of mind. I wish for sleep and no nightmares. I wish to wake up refreshed, and without any knowledge of how tired I am right now. My body hurts from head to toe. It’s a mental game. Pain. Is it real or did I paint it on command?

Although I have told my parents everything that has happened to me in life, I think they have selectively forgotten. Or perhaps I am the one left holding the bag, feeding the monkey on my back, hanging on. When people have shit in their past, it must be scooped out, then flushed with clean water and fresh air, then reborn as a deep open space filled with possibilities. There is no **poof**….and tomorrow it is gone.

I know they wonder what the hell EMDR is and why on earth I am subjecting myself to it. So does my amazing boyfriend who just wants to see me happy. I wish I could easily explain why yesterday matters today. And why tomorrow I pray for it to be gone. Today.

So I will paint my face in smiles and bright, attentive eyes. I will show up for the funeral and for my gramma who couldn’t make the trip. I will get through the 2 days of parental house guests. And it will be over before the next tomorrow worries me. I don’t want anyone to wear black at my funeral. Let them wear rainbows.

I’m just so tired. My mind has been activated. My body is awakened. My spirit is anxious to get down to work. We want to dance and play and laugh and twirl and create spontaneous paintings, unconcerned about the outcome or judgement.

Just for tonight, I am glad it’s already tomorrow. It’s like living in a crack of time that does not technically exist.

Do something beautiful for someone today. Smile at a stranger. Give yourself a break. Believe in magic. It happens.

My EMDR Therapist had me pick a rock and write on it…it felt so bizarre doing something like that. Like I was in kindergarten. I felt almost uncomfortable? Or like I was channeling a littler me. Knees knocked together, head down, looking at the selection of rocks. She says she’s going to have me play the piano during a session! Aaaaaghhh! I have not played since I was young…I miss it. Sigh. Why are good things so difficult?

Like this:

Hello pressers of words….I really didn’t “want” to write today. But then I remembered I have a little group of friends here. And it would be good for me to write it down, while it’s fresh.While I still feel like a steam roller came and crapped all over me, then wheeled over, again, and again, and again. Then a rainbow appeared.

It is another Microscopic Monday….EMDR therapy day…and I knew. I KNEW before leaving the house it was going to be a rough one. I pressed “snooze” from 7am until 10am. I hate snooze. He is such a bad lover. Yet I keep going back. Why? Why? This means already I was off kilter when I finally did face what lies beyond the bed. Help me, I’m falling. Jump and your wings will appear. Please don’t sleep with snooze anymore. He doesn’t love you.

This was EMDR visit number 4. My ET asked me to please make a list of the items I want to address in our time together. I sat in my car (because I’m always a half hour early wherever I go) and wrote the list. On the left, I wrote a brief word or two about the trauma or event, and on the right, I wrote my age or ages at the time. I felt nothing while writing it. (Except critical, over my hand writing.) And when I handed it to her a few minutes later, she said “Oh you are SO good. You do everything I ask. This is excellent.” She laughed because I titled it “The Bucket List.” And at the bottom I had a section called “Done.” Underneath was “Boys in College” and “Bus Accident.” She made a copy and handed it back to me with a beaming, proud grin. Gold star for you. It felt similar to when I got “A’s” on papers in school. The teacher applauded me for my “work” and I rolled my internal eyes, thinking if they only knew. If they only knew. I did it at the last minute. I didn’t even try…don’t they know I’m a fake?

“Lady, do you even KNOW WHAT IS ON THAT LIST?!?!?!” That was what one side of my brain was saying and the other was pleading, “Please, please take this from me. Take it all away. I don’t want it anymore.”

I told her about the panic attack I had on Friday. I was so happy to make it through without having to take a xanax. (And without drinking or throwing up.) I describe to her the BOAconstrictor in my chest. The Ball Of Angst. I’m hooked up to the machines now, and she asks me to go back, and describe the BOA. She’s so pretty, my ET. She’s so purple and frilly and artsy. It feels foreign, this honesty. I close my eyes.

I wonder secretly which one, from the bucket list, that she’ll choose. Will I be able to handle it today?

She says “Sooooooo….I’m going to detour from your list today and go with my intuition.”

FUCK. Why me? What am I doing here? Oh my god. And I pay for this?? I can’t deal with this. This wasn’t in the plan. What is she talking about? I did the assignment. You HAVE the list. Read from The List!

I feel it. I can hear her talking. It’s marbled, like Charlie Brown speak. Wawh waaawh waawh waaah wawawawaah. “So, I want to talk about…” Waawh Waawh Waaah “something you said when we talked last time” Waawh Waah Waaawh “about going after your dreams” Waaawh Waawh Waaawwah “how allowing yourself to follow your heart” Waaah Waawh “and how that causes you extreme anxiety and fear.” Waawh Waaawh “Let’s go back…” Waawh Waaawh Waawh “in time and see if we can trace the origin of that feeling.” Waaawhoh no tell me she didn’t Wwwawh Waawwh Trace? Back? I don’t want to go back.

I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.

Why is this so hard?

Haven’t I been through way worse?

My face, I can feel it. Hot. Contorting. That inhuman guttural freakish crying face people get. They seem to move through worlds unknown and it’s painted on their faces like an exorcism in motion. My best friend and I used to call it “Ugly When Crying.” I am in a sling shot. Rocketing me back in time. My chest is buckled in. I can’t buckle far enough. I am trying to disappear. It hurts to feel.

I’m a girl. Oh my God.

I’m a woman. Oh my God.

You made it.

Hello?

I’m here. I love you.

But it hurts. And I hate them.

But you made it. You made it.

I made it? Oh my God. I made it.

More tears. Where is this coming from. I can’t believe I’m here. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t believe I am HERE. I made it.

I’m about to make a confession. I ***might*** know a thing or two about anatomy. I didn’t learn it in college. I learned it through necessity. Having had several surgeries, and re-learning how to move in this body, it has forced me to be my own student. I’ve also been digging up old memories in therapy. My mind and body is experiencing things that don’t exactly make sense to the naked eye.

So, I have decided to take an online yoga anatomy class. It’s super duper Dick and Jane. 9 months. Watching one video a week. A little half hour of homework a week. Half hour of discussion with yoga teachers I already know. No tests. No memorizing. No way to fail, really. Yet, as I have done for she-love-me-long-time…I am already afraid. Of what? Failure? I think that is the cotton candy answer. The fake fluff of an answer I might give if cornered in a discussion over lunch. But what is it, really?

I started writing on February 1st, 2012. That was a blog that had all of the best intentions. But. I FROKE. I freaked out, and I broke. I could not continue, and I gave up. Then, I started kissingthecockroach on Feb 22nd. I wrote from the gut. It felt so good and so bad all at once, when I say “it made me want to puke” that really just means, I felt something.

Now in perspective, that was only 18 days ago. And since then, I have decided not only to allow myself to think about the possibility of maybe kind of sort of well um getting trained to teach yoga to special populations…but I AM the special population. So everything I do, each word, each breathe, each moment, I am studying, learning, observing, taking note, and refining.

If you asked me 19 days ago if I’d ever be taking an anatomy class I would have answered NO WAY. It is purely impossible. I can’t do it. I suck. I this. I that. Nononononononono. Child pursing lips and shaking head. We go bye bye now.

I tend to fall into ALL or NOTHING, black and white thinking. A task, such as “go back to school” is too monumental for me to wrap my brain around. It is also, not like me to “allow” myself to do something that would make me happy. I immediately go to the you’regonnafail! place.

It’s Saturday and I am downstairs in the Me-Cave. I was doing a Jari Love video. Skull crushers with 5 pound weights. Only a few months ago, and I wasn’t even able to lay down on a mat.

As usual, I let my mind & thoughts go where ever they like while exercising. Even if it’s “Fuck You, Jari!”

It occurred to me that I was learning a lot about my body, just through my own self exploration with exercise. I lamented that I had not “done this a long time ago.” Maybe I would have been a professional by now. It’s the lashing whips of the If Only Monster. Whip, whip. Kapow. Bang. You suck. You should have done something with your education…

Then it occurred to me “You know, you could become an expert if you just started reading the materials.”

I don’t know why, but this honest self admission made me burst out in laughter. So hard I was crying and laughing, trying but failing to keep proper form in my (now) chest flies.

Then, because that allowance of laughter had opened a door, I heard the background music in Jari’s DVD. I could hear a little ching ding ding ching ding ding and my mind could go nowhere else but to see tiny little cartoon cockroaches, with little shakers in their hands, doing a jig back and forth to the music. They wear whimsical almost maniacal grins as they shake their booties to the music.

More laughter. More tears. I am thoroughly amused (and secretly thrilled) by these thoughts.

Thank God, after all these years of isolation, hermitting and keeping secrets, I have maintained this sick and twisted sense of humor.

It has saved me. And now that I am recognizing myself for the first time, making friends with her, I am thrilled. Cause she’s hilarious.